Worth It
by justvisiting80
Summary: Dylan Massett and Emma Decody found each other while clawing their respective ways into the Bates family. Now they have to confront a difficult question: Was it all worth it? Season 3 spoilers. (#Dylemma, with some #Normero subplot.) Rated M for language, sex, violence in future chapters.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:** I'm trying something different, branching out into a new fandom. I can only hope I do these beautiful/flawed/beautifully flawed characters justice. _

__**A/N2:**_ (Subsequent chapters will be much darker, just a warning.)  
_

 _ **A/N3:** Please spread the love to my beta-for-life and internet wife, MarinaBlack1. She is the glue that keeps me together when work+family+marriage+writing=meltdown, for which I am SO endlessly grateful. Check out her work, here on FFN and on Kindle Worlds! **  
**_

* * *

 **Part 1**

Dylan Massett fought against an odd mixture of boredom and anxiety by rocking forward on the balls of his feet. He bounced lightly, his hands deep in the front pockets of his dark jeans, staring through the plate-glass window separating him from an oversized and nearly-empty Intensive Care room. Hospitals made him uncomfortable; they were so institutional. But he'd stayed in this one, despite his unease.

It was worth it.

Worth it, because of that impossibly vibrant auburn hair cascading over a pillow in a sterile white room he couldn't enter. Because of the memory of a kiss that had wrecked him, because of huge doe-eyes that still, fuck, _still_ refused to open for him.

Emma was too small for all this, those long fat tubes draining her chest and the wires linking her to monitors and a breathing mask hiding half her face. Part of him regretted pushing her into the decision, now that he understood what she had meant about the risks. But if it worked, if she could be Emma – just Emma, not "The Girl with Cystic Fibrosis" – then it was all worth it.

"How is she?" Will Decody's British accent bled through even on simple sentences. Dylan looked toward the man who had appeared so quietly at his side, faked a smile, and accepted a proffered cup of passably-good cafeteria coffee. This was their little ritual, never formally arranged but a source of comfort to them both: one would step away for a moment (a trip to the vending machines, a quick call up to Gunner at the farm or to Norma) and always, without fail, return bearing two cups of coffee and that little question. Three words. No need to answer, of course. Emma was always the same. Mostly she slept, but even when she was awake she was so still you could barely tell the difference.

Dylan tried to piece together what day it was. When had he gotten here? _Too soon_ , that was for damn sure. He had assumed something like a transplant would be tricky, probably a few hours of surgery at least. And the Decody family would want to be together after, without people just showing up to disrupt everything… so, he'd figured, give them a day.

Of course, the frantic search for Norman (which ended only when he came wandering up the road toward the motel around mid-day, claiming no memory of how he'd gotten there) had certainly helped pass the time. That, and the typical Bates family guilt-trip bloodbath. But as soon as he was sure his mother and brother were fine Dylan had made the drive down to Portland.

He hadn't counted on all the pre-op bullshit delaying everything. By the time he arrived Emma was barely eight hours into what would end up being a fourteen-hour surgery. Dylan had briefly considered turning around and going home, but Will had spotted him. _And_ noticed the sad bunch of day-old flowers he'd bought last minute from a gas station on the edge of town. When Emma's father looked from the bouquet to Dylan's face, and then slid over on the green pleather waiting room sofa without saying a word, Dylan understood. He knew a little something about inner torment. He sure as shit could recognize it in another person.

So he'd stayed.

Now he took a sip of the coffee and rubbed futilely at hot tired eyes, and tried to think. It must have been a few days already, given that a passing orderly had just offered to throw away the dead brown flowers lying forgotten on the coffee table.

Movement beyond the observation window drew both men's attention back to Emma, and to the team of white-robed doctors and nurses flowing purposefully into the space around her bed.

"So, uh… what happens now? I mean, you know… next?" Dylan's voice seemed unsteady even to his own ears. He wondered what Will must think of him. They had barely known each other before he had appeared in the taxidermist's workshop with a bag full of money and a plea not to tell Emma.

"Next they'll move her out of Intensive Care, god willing," Will explained. "It's been three days. If all went well, this is when we find out." _Or not._ The unspoken hypothetical hung in the air between them.

"Should I…You guys… I should go."

"Dylan, don't be a fool." Mr. Decody rested a hand on the younger man's shoulder without looking away from his daughter's bed. "You'll want to say hello."

Well, that was true. He wanted to say hello so badly his hands trembled. Dylan crossed his arms and swallowed hard.

"Thank you."

"You've still got it backwards, son." Mr. Decody smiled. "It's us who should thank you."

"No. Don't – " Dylan shook his head and looked down at his boots, and up again just in time to see the team moving Emma onto a gurney. He caught sight of her hand, slightly foreign thanks to the gray monitor clamped over her finger and the medical bracelet, but he saw it clutch at her blanket. He saw her eyes flutter toward the window, saw her connect with her father's face and then sweep toward her second visitor…

Dylan Massett remembered how to breathe again. He hadn't realized he'd forgotten how, until that moment.

He smiled _for_ her, because she looked like smiling might kill her right now. He leaned into the window without realizing he had done it, pressing his forehead against the cool glass, and heaved a massive three-day sigh.

"Excuse me, Mr. Decody?" The orderly reappeared, this time with directions to a different wing of the hospital. "This way please…"

* * *

She was supposed to be happy to see her father. And she was, of course she was. But the haunted blue eyes and dark leather jacket of her other guest were awfully distracting, and Emma felt a twinge of guilt at wanting time alone with him, if only for a minute or two. She decided that the guilt meant she wasn't an _entirely_ ungrateful daughter, which made her feel just a bit better.

"… I'm just tired," she confessed when Will Decody asked what he could do for her. She saw Dylan trying to back out of the room, and frowned. Where was _he_ going? "Thank you – _both_ – for being here." That stopped his exit.

"It's... Yeah, no problem," he murmured from the doorway. The three shared a moment of awkward silence.

Emma's father cleared his throat and shifted on his feet. "Well, I'll go check in with your nurses," he declared before stepping outside.

"I thought he'd never leave," Emma joked weakly. Dylan smiled and moved a little closer. He looked scared, and Emma worried suddenly for Norman and the motel. "Is everything okay?"

"When I said you had to – to do this – Emma, it was – I was... being selfish – "

She closed her eyes. She really was tired, and no amount of gorgeous blonde boy could keep her lids open at this point.

"You need to rest. I'll go."

"Actually," she reached out for him, and he grabbed her hand. That shiver-soft touch was the only thing better than seeing his relieved face through the ICU window. "Would you stay? Is that pathetic to ask?"

"No. No, it's definitely not pathetic. I'll stay. I'll stay as long as you want." Dylan settled into the chair by her bed, and even though her body was her own worst enemy right now, she could still feel the hard thud of her heart as he strung his fingers between hers. Emma sank back into the pillow and let the medications win, let them drag her into sleep with him still at her side.

* * *

A gentle shake of his shoulder roused Dylan. He blinked and sat up quickly, embarrassed to discover he had passed out against Emma's hospital bed.

Mr. Decody was staring at his daughter's hand, still clutching Dylan's.

"Shit, I'm sorry, Will. I should get out of here." He tried to stand but the older man kept that pressure on his shoulder.

"You'll do no such thing." Mr. Decody sighed and shook his head at the young couple. "Do you think I couldn't tell it's you she wanted when we first came in? I'm a poor substitute at best. Stay with her. Unless…" Dylan was surprised to see uncertainty creeping into Will's features.

"Unless what?"

"Do you _want_ to leave? Is this too much for you? I just assumed you… but I know how overwhelming it is, believe me. I wouldn't wish all this on _any_ one. So if you have to go, I understand. And I'll help her see – "

" – No! No, that's not it." Dylan swept his fingers over Emma's bangs, brushing them off her face as he thought about how to explain his situation. "Taking care of people doesn't scare me. But she… she deserves someone good, and I'm not very good at good." He swallowed and looked up with a rueful smile and a shrug. "She's not like normal people. She's special."

"Yes. I think so too. As for who she deserves…Well. Maybe we should let _her_ make that decision." Will stepped toward the door. "If you _are_ willing to stay, it'd put my mind at ease. I have to get back to White Pine Bay to check on some things."

The younger man nodded. "Yeah. Sure thing."

With the room theirs, Dylan settled back into the chair by Emma's side and tried not to stare at her while she slept. It felt… wrong. Invasive. But she groaned and shifted, and squeezed his hand.

"Hey," he tried.

"Hey yourself." She licked her lips, pulling his attention to her mouth, focusing his memory on the taste of her. "I'm so thirsty."

"You're not allowed to drink anything yet."

"I thought they said something about ice."

"Oh, right." Dylan collected some into a plastic cup for her, smiling to himself as he helped her. "So. Are you okay?" he asked when she was finished. "How are you really feeling? I mean, your dad's gone and all, so you don't have to be brave about it," he half-joked, watching her. Waiting.

"Yeah, I'm actually pretty great right now, you know? All the drugs. I'm basically numb."

"Ah."

"Mm-hm."

"Numb, like you can't feel _any_ thing?" He drew a circle into the palm of her hand as he spoke, and bit back a grin when she sighed at the touch.

"Nope. Nothing. Couldn't feel that." Her own bright smile was framed by dimples. Dylan warred with himself over the ethics of taking advantage of a hospital patient.

"…So… what are you thinking?" Emma asked him. She was studying his face that way she always did, and she had that look he was sure meant she could read his soul anyway. Honesty seemed the only option when she looked at him like that.

"I'm, uh… I'm wondering if wanting to kiss you right now makes me an asshole."

"Oh, yeah, I don't know the answer to that." Dylan nodded and looked out the window at the dawn sky, sure she was right. Emma continued. "… But I'm very sure that _not_ kissing me would make you a dumbass."

"Really? A dumbass? You don't pull any punches, do you?"

"… Why are you stalling?"

Damn she was good. Dylan shook his head at her. "What if I make you… sick, or I hurt you?"

"Dylan. They moved me out of Intensive Care for a reason. Yes, I need to be careful, but I know you aren't going to hurt me. And… _are_ you even sick? Have you been around anyone who was sick in the past few days?"

"I – I've just been here." Somehow that seemed like a bigger confession than he expected. He cleared his throat. "I had flowers for you, but uh… well, they didn't make it. I probably should've put them in water or something. I wasn't really thinking."

"I'm not allowed to be around flowers right now, anyway. My immune system is too compromised."

Dylan frowned. He felt like a dick. "I should have known that."

" _How?_ From your vast experience with lung transplants?"

"No, but if I'm… I need to… I want to be here for you, and so far I'm just doing everything wrong."

"Not everything," she pointed out. He caught the edge in her voice and knew he would give in to her. He leaned down, still a bit frightened by how mortal she seemed.

"Thank you for not dying, Emma Decody," he whispered, and pressed gentle lips against hers. She tasted different and he wondered if that was the medicine or the operation, if she would taste different forever now, if he was allowed to hope he could stick around to find out.

* * *

 _ **Thank you for reading! ...And now, my terribly selfish request: I'd love to hear from you. I really would. As with all FFN writers, my only compensation is feedback; so of course more feedback = more love = I want to write more. If you enjoyed this chapter, please take a second or two to let me know!**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:** Well, I had the chapter written, and MarinaBlack1 was generous enough to give it a read (have I mentioned how wonderful it is having a beta who also has medical training? I highly recommend it)... so here's the next installment! **  
**_

 _ **A/N2:** I don't normally post two days in a row. This story just started eating at me. I'm also working on a huge piece for The 100 ("Tell Me") so after this chapter, I'll likely alternate posting for these two... but I assure you I'm not one to leave a story unfinished. If there's interest, I'll certainly continue.  
_

 _ **A/N3:** Just a quick shout-out to my girls, Persepholily and Lucawindmover. Amazing women, who, along with MarinaBlack1, make my life a happy, beautiful place. Thank you all.  
_

* * *

 **Part 2**

Neither Dylan nor Emma had thought through what it meant to spend the day together like this, confined to a single room with little more than a television in the corner as potential distraction. They investigated the room's cupboards, Dylan pulling out angry-looking medical devices for which Emma invented horrific stories of torture. They napped. And they talked. It turned out there was a lot to be learned when the outside world was kept... well, _outside_.

Dylan, for example, learned he snored.

"Someone would have told me by now," he insisted when Emma accused him of it.

"Maybe they didn't want to hurt your feelings," she pointed out. "See, _this_ is exactly why you should keep me around." He raised one eyebrow at her.

"You're right, my life is so much better with that brutal honesty of yours."

She blushed, and he cursed himself. She was in the fucking hospital for crying out loud. She didn't need to feel bad because of his shitty jokes.

"No, I – I didn't – that wasn't – it _is_ better with you around, though."

"Shut up."

"Come on. You're the only one who gets my crazy family."

She grinned at that and he relaxed, but her good humor was short-lived. "I really hate being stuck here like this," she complained. "It's hard to be spontaneous when I have to ask you for _help_ every time I want to kiss you."

"Oh… well, I guess I could, uh, spend the whole day hovering over you," Dylan teased softly, "You know, in case the mood strikes. Like this," and he leaned down until their faces were whisper-close. "Feeling more spontaneous now?" He searched her eyes, burning in his own skin when they closed and she rose to his mouth. He held back at first (their earlier kiss had been short, simple, and had still worn her out) but Emma's lips parted under his, and Dylan figured maybe he was an asshole after all – because she felt _so_ good. Her tongue slipped over his temptingly, her hand drifted up to rest on his chest. Definitely-inappropriate ideas swam hazily through Dylan's brain as he traced the line of her arm up to her shoulder, as she opened to him more completely and he moved past her teeth into the dark warmth of her mouth, as he felt her fingers tighten and tangle into the fabric of his t-shirt.

"Emma…" He stopped not because he wanted to, but because her breathing had started to escalate. "I'm pretty sure this isn't what they mean by recovery."

"… Dammit."

Dylan moved from her side, taking a moment to calm down. "I really should get back to the motel at some point," he admitted from the doorway. Shifting the conversation toward his mother and brother worked better than any cold shower. He swallowed and said the words he'd been avoiding. "I know you and Norman are close. I'm sure he's worried about you."

Emma scratched at her collarbone where a strip of tape held her central line in place. "I don't know about that," she confessed. "He didn't seem very happy with the way we ended things."

It was such a simple sentence, and so quiet, but it ripped Dylan Massett's life in half.

There were unexpected visions of a future he hadn't really allowed before: of Emma, waking him up with a kiss in the little bed at the farm. Emma, holding his hand under the table at family dinners. Emma and her sunny goodness, beating back his nightmare past.

A chilling darkness swam under it all, though: Norman watching them from an inky black doorway, too still and calm. Norman, standing in a pool of dim light and soaked in deep red liquid, calmly assuring Dylan of his innocence. Norman and Norma and their toxic obsessions poisoning everything, even Emma, until she was lost forever.

"Hey, can I ask a favor?" He moved back to Emma's side and brushed his fingers along her chin. "Let's, uh, let's keep this between us for now. Okay? I know my brother. He cares about you, no matter what happened, and I – I just wouldn't want to hurt him," he lied. Well, a half-lie. He _didn't_ want to hurt Norman… but right now he was far more worried about who Norman might hurt.

"Okay, sure. If that's what you want. But… my dad probably already knows. And that orderly who called you my boyfriend… and the nurse you kept glaring at for touching me…" Dylan laughed at her.

"Alright, I get it!" He stared at her in amused wonder. Bent, and kissed her as chastely as he could. "Just… not Norman. Please?"

"Not Norman."

"Not Norman what?" Mr. Decody asked as he entered the room carrying a heavy canvas tote full of books and board games. Dylan slipped around the edge of the bed to take it from him.

Emma cleared her throat. "Nothing. How was the drive?"

"Fine, fine. I ran into your mother at the grocery store, Dylan. She asked after Emma and wondered if you could give Norman a ride up to the hospital later. She has a meeting, or she'd do it herself."

"Yeah, of course." Dylan glanced at Emma in apology and headed for the door. "Wait… why didn't she just call me?"

"She said she tried, but you didn't answer."

He reached into his pocket for his phone and swore under his breath. The battery had died, and he hadn't even noticed. "I'll be back later," he promised as he shot out of the room. Norma would kill him for being unreachable for so long.

* * *

He checked at the motel office first, but no one was there.

"Good evening Dylan, did you just get back?" a calm measured voice called from a few rooms down and he turned, caught sight of the room-service cart. He met up with Norman just as the teen was locking the motel room door behind him.

"It's almost six o'clock, why are you still doing housekeeping?"

"Mr. Perkins is a writer, and he prefers privacy during the day. He requested this schedule. It's fine, he's very neat so it takes no time at all. Come with me, Mother should have dinner ready by now."

Up at the house, Norma was humming an old show tune as she set the kitchen table. She said nothing when Dylan appeared at Norman's side, but her eyebrows spoke volumes.

"Hey, Norma."

"Don't 'hey' me. Nice of you to finally remember you have a family that worries about you." Norma slammed a plate onto the table. "You know what, just forget it. Come eat, the food's getting cold."

Dylan felt an automatic guilt building in his chest. It manifested as defensiveness. "It was _one_ day. My phone died and I ju – I didn't know. But I got your messages, though. All twelve of them."

"Whatever. I knew you'd be fine," she deflected with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I just didn't want you getting in the way. Mr. Decody has enough to worry about right now."

"No, that's what I was doing," Dylan tried. "Will – uh, Mr. Decody wanted someone to stay at the hospital with Emma while he came back to town, and I was helping him out. That's all."

"Oh yes, Emma's surgery. How is she?" Norman asked before spearing at a bite of green beans with his fork. Dylan flinched.

"Yeah, she's uh, you know. She's good. I mean the surgeons basically cut her in half or whatever, but she's awake and talking, and… and stuff."

"The poor thing," Norma allowed. "I really don't understand, though. You barely know Emma. Why does it even matter to you?"

"But... she's a friend, right? Of the family? It just seemed like someone should represent us there. Emma and her dad don't exactly have a big support system in White Pine Bay."

"Support system," Norma muttered. "What about a support system for us, huh? We need to be there for _each other_ right now. This family's been through too much. And your brother hasn't been feeling well, have you Norman?" She reached across the table to press her palm against Norman's forehead.

"I told you Mother, I feel fine. _Please_ stop infantilizing me."

"Big words, coming from someone with the flu. Sorry, but you're warm. As soon as you've finished, I want you straight upstairs and into bed."

Norman frowned and pointed his fork at her. "No, this is getting ridicu – "

Norma slammed her hand against the table.

"Just _do it!"_ Norman swallowed his words and stared back down at his plate. "I don't understand you two, I really don't," Norma continued. "I'm trying so damn hard to keep us all healthy and safe, keep us _together_ , and you're both just determined to… to _thwart_ me at every turn!" She paused, took a deep breath, and rearranged her napkin in her lap. "Look, I'm sorry about Emma. I worry about her too, but this family is my first responsibility. So Norman, after dinner you are marching up those stairs and into bed. Dylan, you and I need to talk."

"Yes, Mother," Norman murmured. Dylan grunted noncommittally and focused on his dinner.

* * *

With Norman heading obediently to his room, Dylan rounded on his mother as she washed dishes.

"What the hell is this? I thought I was here to give Norman a lift to the hospital, and now you're telling me he's sick? He can't be around Emma, she's got no immune system! _Christ_ , Norma!"

She froze but did not turn around. "Something's happened. I don't understand what, exactly, but… it's different. Ever since the night he disappeared with that, that… Bradley girl."

"Different, wha – How? What do you mean _, different_?" Was there a _normal_ they were comparing themselves to, now? That seemed fruitless…

"You saw him at dinner! It's like his spirit is all… gone. He just does whatever I tell him. Or sometimes he … watches me, almost as if he's scared of me, or doesn't trust me." Norma shivered and Dylan stepped closer, wrapping one arm around her shoulders. "I don't know what to do. I really don't. We can't afford a place like Pineview, honey. It's so damn expensive, you can't imagine." Norma rested her head on his shoulder. "I feel so… lost. I'm not a monster, am I? There are _way_ worse parents out there! So why am I the one who has to deal with all this bullshit? And honestly, what the _fuck_ happened to Bradley Martin?"

She gave up on the dishes entirely as Dylan pulled her in for a reassuring hug.

"Hey. I'm here, okay? I'm here. You're not alone, Norma. I'll take him to visit Emma if he's allowed to go, and I'll keep an eye on him. And if… you know, if Pineview is what's best for him, then we'll – we'll make it work."

"Dylan. Thank you."

"Sure. Family, right?"

"Is everything okay in here?" Dylan and Norma jumped at the intrusion of a third voice, Norman's terrifyingly calm voice. "Having a party without me, I see."

"Norman, don't be like that," Norma ordered. She pulled from Dylan and headed for the refrigerator. "Can't you sleep? Do you need a glass of milk?"

"Mother, what were you and Dylan talking about?" He was too composed. It was wrong, Dylan could see what Norma meant.

"Emma," he cut in with a small cough. "We were talking about Emma. I want to drive you down to Portland to see her first thing tomorrow, but if you're sick they might not let you in to her room."

"Emma." Norman repeated. "Yes, that will be lovely. Thank you Dylan. Don't worry about me, I'm sure I'll be perfectly fine in the morning," he added, a comment pointed squarely at his mother. Norma simply handed him a glass of milk and crossed her arms, waiting in silence as he drank the pristine white liquid. Dylan's skin crawled watching the eerie showdown.

The glass emptied and set on the counter, Norman stared at his brother and his mother, a hint of challenge in his eyes. It occurred to Dylan that Norman suspected them of plotting, and had no interest in leaving the duo alone to continue their discussion.

"Yeah. Okay. Let's go, Norman. I'm tired, and we should head out early tomorrow." His voice broke the tension and the brothers turned for the hall. Dylan shot a worried glance over his shoulder at his mother as they rounded the corner; he couldn't explain exactly why, but the number of women whose lives he feared for had just doubled.

* * *

 _ **I hope you're continuing to enjoy! Please let me know. I am a complete feedback junkie, I can't even pretend otherwise. Sorry. I have zero shame in that respect!**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N:** MarinaBlack1 is a goddess of medical wisdom, a talented writer, and a beta genius. She's the full package, ladies and gentlemen. I am so lucky to have her._

 _ **A/N2:** WHY won't this story leave me alone? It EATS at me. I can't help writing more! I have to learn some self-control here soon..._

* * *

 **Part 3**

"Emma?"

It wasn't the voice she had been hoping to hear, but she was glad to see Norman at the foot of her hospital bed anyway. She smiled and thanked him for the bouquet of artificial gerbera daisies – velvet oranges and yellows, a bright handful of sun – just as Dylan entered. He hung back, letting the friends have their space.

"I think they keep vases in that cupboard," Emma volunteered, pointing Norman in the right direction. "I saw somebody pull one out yesterday." She winked at Dylan conspiratorially, but he was staring in resentment at his brother's thoughtful gift.

"Emma, you look tired," Norman continued as he arranged the bouquet. "Are people wearing you out? Maybe we should ask them to limit her visiting hours," he suggested to Dylan.

"The hospital can make that decision."

"How? A hospital isn't a person, it's a building. Inanimate objects can't make decisions." Despite the chill between the brothers, Emma snorted at Norman's snarky response. "Besides, Emma needs more rest than most people."

"I think that's up to her doctors," Dylan assured him. "They're the experts, I'm sure they know what they're doing."

"But they _don't_ know Emma," Norman insisted. "She always pushes the limits of what's safe. That's how she got so sick in the first place!"

Dylan paused at that, guilt darkening his eyes.

"Hey, boys?" Emma's quiet voice pulled the men's focus back to her. "I happen to think the only one who knows how I actually feel… is me. Thank you for the concern, but when I get tired, I'll tell you."

"I'm so sorry," Norman shifted to the chair at her bedside, contrition pouring from his skin. "We should know better than to argue like this while you're still recovering." He glared at Dylan. "It's only because we're worried about you. Because we care about you."

Emma swallowed and refused to look at either of her visitors. Even without the earlier warning from Dylan, this overly attentive reaction on Norman's part would have been enough to discourage any admission of her budding relationship with his older brother.

"So, uh… fewer tubes today," Dylan offered, desperate to change the subject. Emma bit back a laugh – under any other circumstances it would have been a terribly awkward transition, but at this point, she'd take it.

"Yeah, they've got me increasing my physical therapy. Apparently I'm a textbook case of a successful double transplant, so – " she broke off unexpectedly, tears robbing her of her voice, surprising her with their force.

Norman jumped up from the chair in search of tissues. Dylan crossed the room to her in three great strides, kneeling and grabbing her hand. They both looked so concerned, which made Emma feel worse.

"Can you – can – can you find my dad?" she asked through hot tears. Norman nodded and fled the room. Dylan wiped at her cheek, whispered nonsense at her, nonsense that made her feel better anyway.

"No, Emma, it's – okay. It's a lot, I get it, but y-you're... allowed to live too, you're _supposed_ to live, that's the point." His words were a jumbled, stumbling mess. "You didn't steal these lungs. Y-you didn't. You didn't kill anyone. They're a, a _gift_ , and all you have to do now is… use them. Please don't think about the sad parts. Think about, uh… think about the rest of it. About all those extra sunrises you get. And you and me, we'll… we'll take a trip, when you're ready. Wherever you want, okay? _Please,_ Emma." As he spoke he kissed her nose, her wet salty cheek beneath the plastic tube of the cannula, her trembling lips. Emma wondered how he knew just what to do to make her feel better.

"Thank you." The tears wouldn't stop, but at least she could smile past them, and by the time Norman returned with her father, Emma and Dylan had composed themselves. Just enough.

"What happened?" Will Decody took over the chair so recently vacated by Norman.

Emma turned to Dylan, not trusting her own voice. "I think it's the… uh… it's all catching up to her," he tried. Emma saw his brow furrow as Will nodded and picked up her hand, speaking in low warm tones. She recognized that face, the one Dylan made whenever he was shutting down to keep from hurting. She wanted to help him, but it was true… the lungs now allowing her to breathe were also such a heavy burden, suffocating Emma under endless questions about the donor's identity.

"I just need to know if she suffered," Emma managed at some point, although the words were almost unintelligible. "Was she hurting, or… or… did she even know? Did she know who she was saving? What if there was a better match, dad? What if someone out there just died because I took these lungs first?"

"Emma, I've told you, you were the best match. At some point, that's got to be enough. The donor never woke up, but her family knew a little about you. I heard they were glad to know a young woman would have a – " his voice faltered and Will Decody looked up at Dylan, eyes too damp. "A second chance." Emma reached for her father's sandpaper-rough cheek.

"Hey, no. Don't you cry too, you're supposed to be the stoic one, remember?" He chuckled at that, and sniffed, and swiped at his eyes. "Now come on, all of you. My physical therapist is coming, and he's kinda cute. I don't want him seeing me surrounded by a roomful of crying men!" She still ached with a need to know more about whose lungs she carried, but in the face of everyone else's raw pain, Emma Decody defaulted to caretaker status as easy as… _breathing_.

* * *

The therapist might have been attractive… It was hard for Dylan to be sure about things like that. He had Gunner's thick sandy hair, which was annoying as fuck. And an easy smile. And he was definitely too young for Dylan's taste.

"Come along, son. She doesn't need us here for this," Will suggested kindly, and Dylan allowed himself to be shepherded toward the door along with Norman.

The PT stopped them. "Actually, Mr. Decody, you should stay. I'll show you some exercises to help Emma at home."

Out in the hall, Dylan breathed a relieved sigh at the idea of Emma having a chaperone. Norman turned a quizzical stare on him.

"Is everything okay? You've been acting strange ever since we got here." Dylan tilted his head at the irony of the accusation, but let it go for now.

"I'm fine. I'm tired as hell, though, I won't lie."

The brothers paced the halls, not bothering with small talk. Occasionally Dylan watched Norman from the corner of his eye. There _was_ something different about him here. He hardly seemed the same boy who'd carried on that eerily flat, polite conversation while driving in to Portland. He seemed more like the Norman of a year ago, more awake and… human. Dylan hated himself for thinking of his brother in those terms. He also hated admitting Emma might be the source of the difference. She seemed able to reach him on a level few others could.

"So what's up with you two, anyway?" Dylan began. Fishing, but Norman didn't seem to mind. "Emma was your freaking shadow for a while there. Then suddenly, you have to be reminded she's in the hospital?"

Norman's mouth twitched down slightly. "It's not like that. I've been dealing with a lot recently, with Mother."

"Yeah. I get that. But I mean, you _do_ have feelings for Emma, right?"

"She's a good friend."

"So you two never…?"

"God no. She was sick. And then we… well, I guess you could say we just outgrew each other. I'll always care for her, yes. But Emma's dying. She's not someone to tie your future to."

" _Shit,_ Norman!" Dylan shivered. "That was a really dick thing to say."

"I'm not trying to be a dick, I'm just trying to look at the situation rationally. There's no point in pretending it's not going to happen."

"But – dammit Norman, even if you're not together, she's your friend."

"Of course. And it's tragic, what's happening to her. But everyone's dying, all the time." Norman's speech began to accelerate, his movements growing jerky and nervous. "In a way maybe she's lucky, since she knows how she has so little time left. Most people have no idea, and so they waste it. They do… horrible, _horrible_ things with their time, and to each other, and they never care about anything _real_ , and then one day it's just – it's just… over. And what's the point of that? I don't know, maybe we should envy people like Emma."

The hall was silent but for the echo of their shoes.

"Sorry. That was…" Norman paused for a shaky breath. "I don't know what came over me. I didn't mean it, Dylan. I don't want Emma to die," and he looked over at his brother, eyes bright with unshed tears. "She _is_ my friend. She's my _only_ friend."

"Hey, come here." Dylan pulled his little brother into a quick hug. "She's going to live, man. She's got these lungs now, these brand new lungs, right? And she's… she's Emma. She doesn't even know _how_ to give up."

* * *

Taking Norman home – and a tough, emotional discussion with Norma about the events of the morning – consumed most of Dylan's day. It was sunset by the time he returned to the hospital. He found Will pacing in the hall outside Emma's room, and felt his heart drop into his stomach.

"Everything's fine, Dylan. She passed her swallow test, they're just removing a couple chest tubes. Nothing we would want to watch, I promise you."

"But that's…. I mean, that's good though, right? She can start eating again?"

"Yes, it's good," Will smiled. "And not the only good news, either. Wait until you see."

It was obvious the minute he entered the room. She could have shaved her head and it would have had the same effect.

The cannula that had fed Emma oxygen for as long as he'd known her was… gone.

"Ta-da," she sang weakly, still sore from the tube removals. "This is my new face."

Dylan ran one hand through his hair and laughed.

"God Emma, you're fucking beautiful."

"Hey," Will warned from behind him, and Dylan blushed. "He is right, though," Emma's father continued, crossing to her side and pressing a kiss to her bare cheek.

"So I guess the big question," she grinned, "Is what are you gentlemen doing for dinner?"

Emma ordered from her restricted menu while Dylan made a run to the cafeteria; it was dark before they sat down together, crowded around Emma's hospital bed. Will Decody and his daughter joked and ate and asked about each other's day, and Dylan watched them, confused. He'd had a lot of family dinners. Not a lot of them felt like this.

"Dylan? Is everything okay?" Emma was smiling at him. Her cheeks were rounder without the constricting plastic tube; softer, more inviting. Despite a week in the hospital, she looked radiant.

"Yeah, uh… It's just… I feel like maybe I'm intruding," he confessed with a frown. "Like I've overstayed my welcome."

"Nonsense," Will smiled. He had been smiling a lot more ever since the surgery. "You're family."

Dylan caught Emma's eye. She sparkled. It hurt, how much Will Decody's words and Emma's brightness and their happy ease lulled him into thinking he was allowed all this.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and noticed a voicemail from Gunner. _Odd._ Check-ins with Gunner were usually in the late morning; they'd already spoken once today.

"Uh, sorry, I should probably get this," he offered, excusing himself to one corner of the room. Emma and Will continued their conversation, although Emma's eyes were trained on Dylan. He smiled reassuringly as he held the phone to his ear.

He hung up again halfway through the message, hands trembling in fear and anger. He could tell Emma knew something was wrong. Lying to her was not an option: she'd just keep pressing. Instead, he bit at his lower lip and tried not to let Will Decody's presence bother him too much as he stole one more perfect kiss from Emma.

"I gotta go. Chick Hogan stopped by the farm this evening."

She gasped. "Gunner?"

"He sounded okay," Dylan hedged. "A little worse for wear, but nothing we can't handle. Chick threatened to set fire to the whole place, though, so I really do have to get going."

"Dylan…." Emma raised one hand to his cheek. His chest ached at the touch. "Be safe, okay?"

"Yeah – of course." He feigned an optimism he did not feel. "I'll be back before you know it."

* * *

 _ **I love all of you who have taken the time to leave me some feedback. THANK YOU! It's so much more fun writing when I know there are people at the other end, reading!  
**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N:** Can we all just take a moment to hug my beta, the endlessly talented  MarinaBlack1? She deserves it. She is a writing/editing MACHINE, ladies and gentlemen. Truly! And while we're spreading love and hugs, I'ma send a shoutout to Persepholily and Lucawindmover, as well... this trio of ladies is such an incredibly talented group, and I am SO proud to call myself their friend. **  
**_

 _ **A/N2:** I also want to hug all of YOU, especially those of you taking that extra minute at the end to leave me feedback! It's so incredibly rewarding, and always makes me want to post again IMMEDIATELY. I truly appreciate it.  
_

* * *

 **Part 4**

"Took you long enough," Chick's drawling baritone seemed too close in the darkness, and Dylan froze with one foot on the wooden porch of the farmhouse. _Fuck._

"Chick. You're here."

Chick appeared around the corner, scary and slow. "Of course I'm here, Dylan. You know what's _not_ here though? My money. – Hey, no you don't…" Chick jumped onto the porch with surprising agility, cutting off Dylan's path to the door. "No need to rush in there and check on your little houseboy. Gunner's just fine, and he'll stay just fine long enough for you and me to enjoy a nice heart-to-heart."

Dylan glared. Adrenaline poured through his veins, setting his muscles on fire.

"Caleb owes me fifty thousand dollars, kid. I'd love to say my beef's with him, and him alone… but he's not here. So. Sins of the father, and all that." Chick shrugged. It was like watching a mountain shrug. A mountain with a shotgun.

"I can't help you, Chick." Dylan licked his lips quickly, thinking. "Caleb… Caleb took off without telling me anything. I don't know where he went, okay?"

Chick laughed and wandered proprietarily over to an Adirondack chair at the edge of the porch. It looked older than the house itself and when he sat down, the worn boards groaned in protest. Dylan cursed himself for leaving his handgun in the pickup truck; for the first time in days, he remembered how oddly comforting he'd found Caleb's presence. It had been a long time since he had felt this naked and alone. The vulnerability gnawed at him.

"Oh, _Dylan_. Dylan, don't fuck with me. I know you're smart, and I know you were the one looking for easy money. There's no way your father conned you out of all that cash. So give me what's mine, and we can get back to the business of being neighbors."

"I d– look, I don't _have_ your money, okay?" Dylan spread his hands out, palms up. "I just... don't."

"That's bad news," Chick said, nodding. "And here's my current problem with that answer. See, I'm getting my fifty grand back no matter what. Now, I can't exactly threaten you, because I need you to make it happen. But I _can_ threaten the people you care about. I hate to do it; it's fucking messy when things get to this point. But you've left me no choice, Dylan."

She shouldn't have been the first person he thought of. He should have thought of his mother, his brother, even Gunner, before Emma Decody's broad easy smile and soulful eyes… but there she was. Never mind that Chick had no idea who she was, or that she had crept into Dylan's world so quietly it scared him. Dylan choked slightly on the idea of his neighbor touching her, ever.

"I'm not trying to cheat you, Chick. How can I make you believe me? If I had your money, I'd sure as hell give it back to you."

Chick stroked his rough golden beard. He stared at Dylan, still, silent, and the younger man grew restless under the scrutiny. "You'll get it to me. I have faith in you. And you know what? I'll even give you time. Because I am nothing if not a generous neighbor." Chick stood and nodded cordially, then stepped down from the porch. "Don't be a disappointment, Dylan. I'll give you one month, but that's it. My generosity has a limit."

As soon as those broad shoulders and long hair had faded into the shadows of the woods, Dylan rushed inside the house to find Gunner. The teen was sprawled on his cot in one corner of the small main room, already snoring, a half-melted bag of ice on the floor beside him. Besides a face full of colorful bruises and a healthy dose of blood staining the front of his shirt, he seemed fine. Dylan sighed, relieved and annoyed in equal measure. He cleaned up the ice before grabbing a beer and heading back outside. He skipped the chairs, grabbing a seat on the edge of the porch and leaning into a wooden post for support.

Tonight the bay was almost still, but not quite: the moon, a warm orb high in the sky, fractured into a million shards of cold light wherever it touched the water. It danced over the crest of each delicate ripple teased into being by a shy breeze. Despite a day that seemed to have lasted years, Dylan let his head fall back against the pillar and gave himself over to the scene. The smell of pine trees and saltwater and dirt. He sipped at his beer and thought about _her_.

 _"Nice little piece of land you got here."_

Emma belonged to the farm. She loved it as much as he did, and now in the quiet darkness Dylan comforted himself with traitorous daydreams, sunny ones about the kind of family they both wanted but had never quite found anywhere else. The kind where being fucked up wasn't a prerequisite, where love always won and hate was a dirty word. His throat tightened until he struggled to breathe. Dylan pulled once more at the beer in his hand, his thumb picking into the label as he tried to talk himself out of that kind of fantasy. Too many things stood in the way: the imminence of Chick Hogan and his proposed violence. Norma's perpetual drama, and that money-suck of a motel. Emma's no-doubt brutal medical costs. Then there was Norman, of course.

There was always Norman.

Eventually Dylan gave up his seat, the cold of night driving him back indoors and down the hall to the bathroom. He was desperate to get clean, and he peeled off his t-shirt as he walked, shivering at the chill brushing over bare skin. The shower, by contrast, was just a bit hotter than necessary. Dylan stayed in a long time, letting the pressure and the sting of the water coax at least some of the tension from his shoulders. He always felt this way after an encounter with Chick: tight in the gut but also like there was some oiliness the man exuded. Something needing to be scrubbed off the skin, in case it was catching.

"Okay, thinking about Chick Hogan in the shower is kinda fucked up." _Talking to yourself in the shower isn't much better_ , he reminded himself with a shake of the head. It took no effort to arrive on an infinitely more satisfying option. Emma was always right there anyway, waiting on the edge of thought for a chance to peek in and say hello. Dylan ran rough fingers through wet hair and recalled that last touch in the hospital, when her hand had grazed his cheek.

He missed her. They'd been apart only a few hours, but those had been some pretty shitty hours. A lonely hot shower, with Gunner snoring in the front room and Chick hiding out in the woods somewhere… None of this was how he had pictured his life. Not that he'd necessarily pictured Emma in it before, but now that she was, he wanted her in _every_ part of it. He wanted her in the living room, sitting by the fire reading or whatever the hell she did for fun. He wanted her in the kitchen, helping him make breakfast. And _fuck_ he wanted her in his bed, naked and free of all the… the tubes and oxygen tanks. He wanted those dimples and that wide happy grin of hers, he ached with the need to make her moan his name... Dylan rapped his forehead against the tile of the shower wall lightly, twice, trying not to be That Guy. He failed. The water was losing its heat but he didn't notice, letting it cascade over the back of his neck and down the valley of his spine as he gave in to the need for her. He closed his eyes and succumbed to imagined breasts, round and reactive to his touch, his mouth. To the flare of illusory hips shivering under his fingers. To the fantasy of Emma's rough heady voice as he made her come against his tongue, and Dylan Massett curled forward, face in his hands, shoulder pressed into the cool tile, swearing at himself for being _such_ a fucking mess.

The water was frigid by now, and he finished washing in a bitter flurry of self-loathing curses and goose-pimply flesh, grateful for the relative warmth of the cotton towel as he tiptoed across the hall to his room.

… But maybe... He could make it happen. Maybe there _was_ a way to ensure Emma would be safe with him. It was the worst option. But it was also the only viable way to get Chick Hogan off his back, and if it worked he'd even be able to help Norman. He threw on clean clothes and headed back out to the pickup, eager for action now that he'd settled on a plan.

Eager to earn that imagined future with Emma.

* * *

Jodi Morgan's barn had escaped the DEA raids, thanks to a certain devious sheriff and his obsessive need for control. Nobody but Dylan and Romero had any clue just how valuable the second floor of that facility really was, and Dylan was fairly confident the police officer hadn't had a chance to move anything yet. There had been too many other distractions recently.

He kept his headlights off as he pulled up to the wooden building, just in case one of the handful of scattered neighbors happened to be up late. The barn doors creaked too loudly in the silence of this remote location, and Dylan froze, waiting. He half-expected one of Jodi's dogs to come tearing across the lawn. Or that crazy goat. Instead a lonely cricket continued his song uninterrupted, and Dylan breathed out slowly. He slipped inside the pristine white space, pleased to find a familiar warm glow escaping from upstairs, illuminating the corner ladder.

He could feel Jodi's absence immediately: in the abnormal height of the plants, their rangy wildness, the overall look of work abandoned mid-thought. Romero had kept the lights on and the water flowing, but he was no farmer. Dylan wandered through the grow-houses and lamented the loss of several promising strains Jodi had been cultivating. He found her laptop, damaged from the constant humidity but maybe Gunner could pull something from the attached USB drive. Dylan pocketed the small blue stick and began collecting trays of the youngest plants, pushing back memories of the doomed Morgan family as he worked. He didn't need that kind of curse hanging over him.

The truck bed was loaded with over a hundred viable specimens when he heard it: the unmistakable rumble of an approaching SUV.

"Shit." There was no time to hide his vehicle. He considered hopping in the cab and making a run for it, but he had barely moved half of what he needed. And a strange car speeding down the driveway would arouse too much suspicion; the Morgans' property would come under new scrutiny, its treasures lost to him forever.

No choice, then, really. Dylan grabbed his handgun and tucked himself just inside the barn door, waiting. He swallowed hard when the approaching vehicle stopped, and measured footsteps crunched over gravel toward the building.

"You're a fucking idiot, Dylan, you know that?" Alex Romero oozed annoyed world-weariness even from the other side of the barn wall. "Did you honestly think I wouldn't know the _minute_ you set foot on this property?"

 _How_ did _he know?_ Dylan shook his head and stepped outside - into the bright beams of the Sheriff's truck - careful to keep his hands up and his gun visible. "I don't want trouble," he began. The words sounded empty even to his own ears.

"No, you do. You do, you little _shit_ , or you wouldn't be out here trying to screw me over." Romero stepped forward, grabbing Dylan's pistol and emptying it of its clip with an angry sigh. "You said you were walking away, and I believed you. Dammit! What is it with you people? Why do I keep falling for your bullshit?"

"I don't... I don't really understand the question," Dylan mumbled, and Romero squinted at him in exhausted disbelief. "...You know, whatever. Um, circumstances have changed. I need… fuck. I just… need money."

"Yeah, well. Don't we all."

"No, you don't understand. People are… people are counting on me. People I care about. You have to believe me, there's no way in hell I'd be here if I didn't have to be."

Romero paced, his jaw ticking. Dylan shifted uneasily and continued, wondering how many more times he would have to convince people of his sincerity tonight.

"I'm desperate, okay? I wasn't trying to cheat you. I wanna… you know, set up a deal. Like we talked about originally. It'll work. I still have solid connections, and I'm good at what I do. Ask anyone who's worked with me."

"You do realize most of your work references are dead?"

Dylan shifted under the older man's glare. "That's not... well okay, that's true. But I'm _not_ dead, and that counts for something, right? It's pretty obvious you don't know what you're doing with these plants – " he cringed at his own poor word choice and the scowl the sheriff shot him, but plunged on anyway. "But – but that's why you need me, isn't it. Jodi's crops are the best around, it's common knowledge. And there's a hole in the market right now. It's perfect timing if we jump on it. I can handle growing and distribution, you know that – "

"St – just stop talking," Romero snapped. "You people need to learn how to shut the hell up for five seconds, and let me think!" He kept pacing.

Dylan licked his lips and waited. He tried to ignore the heat of the blood pounding through his veins, the fight-or-flight response to this latest potentially deadly situation.

"Okay. Here's what's going to happen."

Dylan sighed and relaxed his shoulders. And let Romero tell him what to do, a surrender of responsibility he found comforting after everything else the day had pushed on him.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N:** I am so in love with these two. Sorry I keep spending so much time on them (although interestingly I heard Season 4 IS going to be dealing with their relationship in the aftermath of Emma's surgery, so I'm curious to see how that will all shake down in "real life")! **  
**_

 _ **A/N2:** Please extend huge hugs and thank yous to my beta,  MarinaBlack1! She is the cat's meow AND the cat's pajamas. Seriously. I also need to thank Persepholily, who's so kind to read these chapters in advance, and give me that last little ego-boost I need to actually post!_

 _ **A/N3:** Lastly, my fellow Dylemma darlings, I thank YOU. Your kind words and generosity in leaving feedback are my favorite (well, let's be frank, my ONLY) compensation, so... MWAH! I LOVE YOU ALL VERY MUCH!_

* * *

 **Part 5**

Will Decody kept finding little things for Emma to do: exercises the therapists had shown him or a father-daughter Scrabble re-match or those damn breathing tests. She knew what he was doing: distracting her. She also knew _he_ knew it was not working.

"Let's take a walk," he suggested when he caught her peeking at her phone to check for texts. For probably the tenth time that morning.

Emma faked a smile. "Yeah, okay." She waited until her father's back was turned before palming the phone and slipping it into the pocket of her bathrobe.

So Dylan hadn't called or texted since rushing off to be with Gunner. So what? It didn't mean anything. It had been barely two days. _Two days._ Really, on the grand scale of Time (with a capital "T") it was nothing at all, not even a blip, hardly the length of a sigh…

… Emma sighed.

"It's the twenty-first century, Emma. You can call a boy if you want," Will grumbled. Clearly he had given up all pretense at ignorance of his daughter's dilemma. "It wouldn't seem desperate, if that's what has you worried." Emma wrapped her arm tightly around her father's elbow as they turned a corner in the hall.

"No, that's not… it… entirely," she admitted. "If I call him, I'm reminding him that I'm here, and that's not fair to him. He has a life outside of this hospital, and it's important to him, and if he doesn't have to… you know, worry about me, then he can concentrate on what he needs to do. I don't want to keep him away from his family or the farm, or make him feel like he has to choose."

"All that from the lack of a call?" Will asked. "Relationships are certainly more complicated now than when I was a lad."

Emma leaned against her father. "Dad… tell me about it? Please?"

"Tell you about what?"

" _You_ know." It had been years since Emma asked for the story of how her parents met. At first it was out of anger over her mother's departure, then life had gotten in the way and Emma had grown too busy. Now, though, she had the time. And a more personal interest. Will smiled, nostalgia brightening his eyes.

"A boring story, really," he began as he patted her hand. "We were students at university, and just like in the fairy tales, she had no idea I existed. I pined for her silently – as any good scholarship boy should – until one night at the local pub –"

"Emma!"

His _voice._ When had she started reacting like this to Dylan's voice? Emma bit her lips together to steady her nerves, and looked back over her shoulder. Maybe she should have been more concerned that he was seeing her in a pair of wrinkled pajama pants and the faded Chinese silk robe her father had given her for Christmas years ago… but she couldn't bring herself to care. He was so handsome it was unfair. His smile was broad and white, his ocean blue eyes crinkled at the corners, and as he jogged to catch up with the Decodys Emma felt weak in ways that had nothing to do with her surgery.

"You're a miracle, you know that?" Dylan said, reaching out to her, fingers grazing her elbow. His touch (gentle, hesitant, as if afraid to break her) matched his tone. Emma shivered in response, a reaction both men misinterpreted. Will handed her off to Dylan and left to fetch a shawl from her room. Dylan pulled her close, their initial light contact paling in contrast to the warm strength of his arms wrapped around her shoulders, his rough beard scrubbing her cheek. Emma took advantage of the unexpected proximity to breathe in the scent of him, her first real chance – ever – to do so. She inhaled deeply, overwhelmed by the combination of old leather, crisp soap, and the coffee he must have finished on his drive down to Portland. A low hum of appreciation escaped Emma and Dylan tensed, worried.

"No, I'm fine," she assured him. He relaxed his hold; she hid her disappointment by clearing her throat. "How's Gunner? I was going to call, but I figured you'd let me know, and I didn't want to interrupt anything between you two." Emma gasped. "N-no! Not that I think there'd be anything to interrupt, I mean, _obviously_ I know you're both… that sounded – you know what? I'm just going to shut up now. God."

Dylan grinned (oh shit, how she loved his grin) and shook his head at her.

"Definitely nothing to interrupt. I just – I had to take care of some things on the farm. I've been gone a lot."

"Right. Of course." She let him lead her further down the hall. "So… what did that Chick Hogan guy want, anyway?"

"Hm? Nothing."

"He assaulted Gunner, Dylan. That hardly sounds like nothing."

"Nothing important. Just some mix-up with Caleb."

"But Caleb's… gone, so…"

"Yeah. I told him that." Emma could tell he was keeping part of the story from her. It pissed her off. They both knew how damaging secrets were.

"Okay, look, I get that you're used to being on your own with… well, with pretty much everything, but that's not… I'm not interested in being shut out by yet _another_ member of your family. So whatever you're not telling me, I hope you've thought _really_ damn hard about it, and I hope you know what you're doing." It sounded an awful lot like a threat. Dylan's eyes widened, and she held her breath.

"I'm not shutting you out, I just…" Dylan sighed heavily. Swore lightly. "I can't…Emma, you can't ask me about this. Please." He looked at her like someone had just kicked his puppy – no, he looked more like the poor kicked puppy – and Emma gave in. She stepped into his personal space again, the conversation and the excitement and the walk all catching up to her at once. She grabbed for Dylan's shoulder and he wrapped one arm around her waist.

"…Fine. I trust you," she whispered. She could hear the exhaustion leaking into her voice.

"I really should get you into bed," he urged. Emma laughed at Dylan's sudden embarrassed blush. "…Yes, _okay._ But you know what I mean."

"Mm-hm. Still tempted to give you a hard time though." Emma leaned against Dylan's chest as he guided her back to the room. "Just… maybe a nap first."

"Sure."

"Dylan… where'd my dad go?"

"He, uh… I think he kind of cleared out."

Emma sighed. "He seems to do that a lot, doesn't he?" She let Dylan lift her into bed. It probably should have felt romantic and sexy, but under these circumstances it really didn't. "I think he likes you."

"What are you talking about?"

"My father spends most of his time trying to shelter me from the world, especially boys and sex. But… he doesn't do any of that with you."

"It's been kind of crazy around here, I'm sure he'll try to scare me off when he gets a moment," Dylan promised her. He coiled a strand of Emma's hair between two fingers as he spoke. She wondered if he even knew he was doing it.

Emma's eyes drifted shut but she kept talking, worried about losing Dylan again so soon after he had returned. She licked her lips and searched for a topic. "How's Norman?"

"…Norman?" He always sounded so guarded whenever his brother's name came up.

"Yeah. I worry. I want him to be okay, and I… don't get me wrong, I love Norma of course, but I see the pressure she puts on him. It's got to be a strain, and one he doesn't need right now."

"I know what you mean. I'm, uh… I actually have this idea, you know. To help him? It's just… it's still early. I can't really go into it yet. But as soon as I can, Emma, I promise…"

"… I understand." Emma's previous warning still clung to the air between them. She forced her eyes open, anxious now about Dylan.

He was watching her. He was staring as if to memorize her face, and in a completely unexpected way it _was_ romantic and sexy. She reached for his hand. "Do you have to go back?"

"Eventually. But I can… I have time right now. I can stay if you want."

"Only if you want to, though. No pressure." Emma smiled to let him know she was teasing. He snorted and narrowed his eyes at her, and bent for the kiss she had been craving since the night he left. His lips were salty-sweet, his fingers at her temple calloused but gentle. Emma gave up trying to play games (games sucked anyway, nobody ever won) and whispered a selfish plea against his parted mouth: "Stay."

Since the surgery Dylan had been so careful with her. Like she was made of glass. But this time he grunted a low wordless assent and his mouth slid more roughly over her lips than usual, echoing the slight pressure of his chest drifting over hers. It was a subtle roll up the length of her body, and Emma found herself responding viscerally: a tightening low in her stomach, a heat that spread outward until even her toes burned. She bit at his lip, pressing upward, hungry to feel the weight of him again.

"Shh," he warned her at one point, as his mouth traveled her jaw to her ear. She giggled in reaction to the ticklish feeling and he broke away, staring down at her in amusement.

"So that's a no for ears?"

"No. Sorry." Emma tried, and failed, to hold back her smile.

"That's okay," Dylan answered with a wink and a grin usually reserved for naughty little boys, "There's plenty of other places."

"Oh, really? What if I'm ticklish everywhere?"

"Well. I guess we'll have to find out if that's true."

* * *

Will Decody froze just outside the open door to Emma's hospital room, halted by the sound of hushed voices and shared laughter. He took a silent step in retreat and leaned against the wall, miserable.

He was not a bad man. He knew that. He had made hard choices to keep Emma safe – sacrifice upon sacrifice until he no longer remembered a life outside of hers. His wife, his career, his native England: each had been offered up on the altar of Emma's illness. And still, it was not enough. He dreaded her death far more than his own because he knew – with a certainty no parent should feel – he would outlive his young, terrifying, vibrant daughter. And when that day came – when the brightest star in his universe was snuffed out as easily as a guttering candle – Will Decody would be left a broken shadow of a man, lost without his light.

… He was _not_ a bad man. Had he not warned off Emma's few suitors in an effort to protect them? Had he not been brutally honest with Norman Bates?

But then came Dylan. And instead of doing the right thing – sending him running – Will had let him in. Why?

Dylan was so soft-spoken – something within him already broken – and in a rare moment of weakness Will had taken advantage of the young man's empathy, because… because the burden of carrying Emma's illness alone was too much on most days, and bloody impossible on others. He had shared his worries, and it had felt so good and he'd tried to convince himself that it was right and just to do so, that it was fair warning, that any bright person would run away and not look back… and it was a comforting lie. And Dylan had not run.

He'd stayed. Dylan, with his gentle stammer and his own secret burdens and his way of looking at Emma like he hoped she might save him from drowning… he'd inserted himself into their lives without a backward glance.

Dylan Massett had given Will a new future with Emma; his dream had come true, but it was all a tainted nightmare now because the cost was far too high. The latest and greatest sacrifice would be Dylan himself, and it broke Will Decody's heart.

He covered his face with his hands to stifle a low sob.

* * *

 _ **NOW the bad news (kinda)...I leave tomorrow to fly halfway around the world. I will be in China for three weeks. It should be a great chance to get some wonderful writing done, but internet access can be tricky - and certain websites are more difficult to access than others. I have NO idea if I'll be able to access FFN! But if not, I will try to email chapters to Marina and have her post them here for me. My point is: if I'm quiet, please consider it merely a mini-hiatus. I WILL BE BACK! I love you all!**_

 _ **xoxo,**_

 _ **J.V.**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N:** I am finally back in the U.S.A. - wow it feels GREAT to be home! _

_**A/N2:** Still grateful to **Persepholily** for her assistance with everything, including her support of this story! **  
**_

 _ **A/N3:** Still  forever indebted to my most amazing beta, the insanely talented **Marina Black**. She has posted a flash fiction piece to Tablo as part of a writing contest, and you should totally go read it and like it (it's called "Colorblind"). I have a piece up as well, called "Death and the Woman" and would also love to hear your comments and feedback on that (since it's NOT fanfiction)._

 _ **A/N4:** Obviously I'd also still love to hear your thoughts on this piece, too! :0)_

* * *

 **Part 6**

By now Dylan was so habituated to the drive between White Pine Bay and Portland it barely registered. If anything, it gave him time to think, which – on days like today – was both good and bad. First, of course, was the joy of retuning to Emma. She reminded him of those time-lapse videos from biology classes in high school, the way she seemed to grow a little stronger and a little more alive each time. Every visit made his heart swell with pride, a stupid reaction but uncontrollable.

Second, and much more distressing, was the persistent sensation of being stretched too thin. Chick's deadline was here and Dylan had no cash to offer. He'd kept his ear out for something fast and dangerous – the kind of work that would pay at least a bit of the debt – confident a show of good faith on his part and some fast talking could earn him another extension… but there was a shocking lack of criminal activity around town these days. He had no choice: he'd have to resort to the backup plan, offering Chick Hogan partnership in his tiny black market marijuana business. Chick would accept because who wouldn't, with such a big potential payout? …But the idea made Dylan's skin crawl. He wanted zero long-term relationship with his neighbor. A silent business partner who no doubt considered "silent" as more of an optional thing? Dylan would never be rid of the man.

And Romero would be livid. Dylan sighed and inched forward in line at a traffic light, turning his windshield wipers to intermittent to combat a sudden drizzle. The sheriff was up at the farm constantly now, poking around, asking about irrigation and harvesting and the difference between greenhouses and grow houses until even the easy-going Gunner rolled his eyes. There was nothing to be done: Romero had been burned by the feud between the Fords and the Wilsons, and had no interest in repeating those mistakes. The only reason he had let Dylan raid Jodi's barn for plants was because Dylan had agreed to a much more involved partnership. It was a bit like having Zane around again, though – a lot of interest in proving who had the biggest dick, but not enough knowledge to back it up. _Well, that's not quite true_ , Dylan admitted as he flicked on his turn signal and passed a pristine Saab 900 and a kayak-laden Subaru, _At least Romero is smart._

Unfortunately, the only real distraction facing the sheriff – the latest mysterious White Pine Bay death – was _also_ keeping Dylan up at night. Police had pulled an old maroon sedan from the water, with East Coast tags and a decomposing body in the trunk. Thanks to the receptionist at the police station and her waitress girlfriend from the diner just outside of town, everyone knew the body was a woman, that the only way to identify her had been DNA, and that there had been no matches in the federal missing persons database yet. It was feeling more and more like a cold case, which had Romero in a very bad mood.

As for Dylan, he could barely look at Norman right now without wondering… _maybe?_ But then he felt like a shitty brother. There had been no motel guests from that far away, and besides – the last time he'd suspected Norman of killing someone it had turned out the teen was helping Bradley Martin flee town. So... _maybe_ Norman deserved the benefit of the doubt this time.

And an evaluation by a medical professional. Screw Norma and her paranoia over doctors, there had been too much stalling.

He pulled into the parking lot of the hospital, shook his head to clear it of all the grey clinging worry, and turned his thoughts back to Emma. At least he had this sanctuary. The orderlies and nurses smiled at him as he entered; he knew several of them by name at this point, and nodded quick greetings here and there. Jorge, one of the therapists who worked with Emma, stopped him as he rounded the last corner of the main hallway.

"Dylan? _Que pasa_ , man?"

"I'm just visiting. Why? Is everything okay?" Jorge had a funny look to him. Dread exploded inside Dylan, a hard fast punch to the gut.

"Yeah, Emma's fine. She went home this morning. Didn't anyone tell you?"

Dylan swallowed. Refused to check his phone for the messages he knew weren't there, because checking would have looked fucking desperate. He half-nodded instead. Smiled.

"I guess I, uh… I got the day wrong. Sorry. Thanks, though."

* * *

He texted. No answer.

He called. Straight to voicemail.

...He stopped trying. It hurt less that way.

At least he could be more honest with Norma. When she asked about Emma a few days later and he snarled back that he didn't know, he wasn't her damn boyfriend, who gave a fuck… it was mostly true. True enough that Norma just raised her eyebrows and went back to sighing and dusting and talking half-to-herself about Norman's erratic behavior.

Dylan walked out on her mid-soliloquy. It was nothing new, so why listen? Instead he searched out his brother. The motel office felt haunted by Emma – by the absence of her – but Norman was there at his desk, balancing books or studying or something. He looked up at the intrusion, watching Dylan run his hands along the counter, fiddle with the bell, straighten some brochures…

"Hello, Dylan. How's the farm?" he finally asked, although he did not bother getting up.

"Fine. It's fine. The roof's done on the barn, which is good. We need to move the plants so we can get started fixing up the cabin." There had been a short, but very real, period in which he'd started to see potential in the place. A time when he'd been excited to turn it into an actual home, instead of just a shack where he let Gunner crash. Now he felt a distinct lack of motivation.

"You and Gunner are working on it alone?"

"Yeah, well, for now yes. But actually Remo's on his way back up from L.A. so…"

"That's good. You'll have a full house then."

"I guess." Dylan paused and looked up, finally paying attention to Norman's words. "I hadn't really thought about where to put everyone."

Norman shrugged, serious. "They could stay here at the motel, although you know Mother will expect them to pay. And she still hates what you do, legal or not."

"Thanks for that reminder. You know, it's not like I asked for all this, it just kind of… happened."

"I understand." Norman leaned back in his chair, picking up a pen and tapping it against the edge of his laptop as he contemplated Dylan. "May I… May I ask you a question?"

"Yeah. Of course."

"Have you ever been… you know, scared… of Mother?"

" _Scared_ of her?" Dylan thought about that. He rested his elbows on the counter, clasped his hands together around the service bell, and watched Norman. He thought back as far as he could: to those first days of Sam Bates as a stepfather and the birth of a little brother and the subsequent discovery that love looked and felt a very specific way, and it was a way nobody had ever looked or felt toward _him_.

"No, I don't think 'scared' is a good word for it," he finally answered. "…Wait. Are _you_ afraid of her?"

Norman was quick to justify himself. Too quick. "Not afraid exactly. More like… I… It's hard to explain."

"Okay, well _now_ I'm curious. Did something happen?"

"I don't know. I think, maybe… I think she might have hurt someone. Badly." Norman stood up, pacing, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his cardigan.

Dylan tried to stay calm. " _Who?_ Norman, what the hell are you talking about?"

"No. Never mind, forget I said anything. It's silly. I'm being ridiculous. I have to go." Norman rushed past Dylan and out the office door before Dylan could ask any more questions.

* * *

"Honey, I gotta cut you off," Liz Cultee announced gently to the good-looking drunk currently doing his best not to fall off his barstool. He grunted and apologized, and she grinned as she flicked her straight black hair over her shoulder while collecting shot glasses from near his elbow, tossing them into a bin to be washed later. She was pretty sure she was at least two decades older than her customer, but when the next-best-looking man in the place was Big Roy – whose daughter had just given birth to twins, and whose beard still had crumbs from dinner stuck in it – Liz was inclined to consider age just a number.

"Annie... Can I call you Annie? ...Annie, I may need to make a, a, a phone call."

"Well, my name's Liz. But you're the politest drunk I've seen in a long time, so… sure, you can call me whatever the hell you want." She paused, biting at her lip, uncertain. _Ah, fuck it_ , she decided. _Couldn't hurt to try..._ "Know what? You can call me _whenever_ the hell you want, too." She slid a blank receipt toward him with her number scrawled on the back, and watched as he peered at the writing as if trying to make it stop dancing around on the paper.

"N-no. I… I have his number. I don't need more."

 _His._ Figured he'd be gay. "Well, listen, if you ever get tired of boys, go ahead and give me a ring," Liz tried again. He was _really_ damn cute. It was the eyes, she decided. Normally she preferred the dark eyes of her people, but these carried a kind of pain that tugged at her heart.

"No… 's not… not like that. Annie – can I call you Annie?" He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the sticky coolness of the bar. "…Damn."

"Oh, _shit._ I should have cut you off a long time ago, shouldn't I?" Quiet drunks were the worst, always so tough to gauge. They just sat there, not drawing attention until they passed out and hit their head on the way down… or until they hauled off and shot someone. Liz sighed and beckoned Jared over. The waiter agreed to watch things while she dealt with the kid, and she removed her black apron before slipping around the corner of the bar.

"What's your name, honey?" she asked as she draped his arm over her shoulders and headed for the door.

"Dylan."

"Okay Dylan, let's get you some fresh air." She settled him into one of the broken patio chairs on the small front porch, and handed him a bottle of water. Once he seemed less likely to vomit up those last three shots of tequila, she leaned against a nearby porch column with arms folded over her chest. "So, want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Really? Because in my experience, drinking like you were doing… That kind of drinking comes with a story."

"No."

"Well okay, but – "

"… It's my family. They're so fucked up." The words tumbled out but he seemed to hate himself for speaking, as though release and shame warred inside him. "And not, not like regular families, because I know all families are fucked up but I think my, my brother did something really bad. Like, terrible. But he said our mom did it and they're basically the same person... and they're both so damn twisted I don't know if one of them did it or not. And then there's this person I want to be with and I really thought it could work, but I guess I'm not good enough or whatever so fuck all of them, Annie. Just fuck them all."

Liz swallowed. "Yeah, that seems fair." She looked behind her at the empty street and quiet parking lot, and shivered. "How about we call your boyfriend to come get you now?"

"Boyfriend? No. _Emma._ " He was fading again, fumbling stupidly for his phone. Liz prayed nobody would suddenly show up to catch her molesting patrons, and eased one hand into the back pocket of Dylan's jeans. She thanked the bright green neon of the bar's overhead sign for masking her blush.

"Emma, okay," she muttered, typing all zeroes in at the password prompt – why were men so damn predictable? – and unlocking the phone. "Wow, _Emma._ Got it." There were an awful lot of texts and phone calls to this chick, at least up until a few days ago… She held the phone to her ear as it rang, ready to apologize for the late night disruption.

"Dylan!" a young woman answered, breathless, "I am _so_ sorry, my dad –"

Liz cut her off. "Is this Emma?"

"Uh, yes …Oh my _god,_ who is this? Where's Dylan? Is he okay? D-did something happen? _Oh my god!"_

"Hey! Stop! Everything's fine. Well, mostly fine, I guess. I'm the owner of Arnold's, over in Williston? And your… uh… friend… He's drunk as a skunk. I really don't think he should drive."

"Shit. Okay. Shit. Um… Someone will come get him. What's the address?"

Liz gave directions, then listened briefly and handed the phone to Dylan. "She wants to talk to you." He looked up at her and within those pretty eyes a new battle raged: panic, need, and desperate hopelessness. Liz finally understood – he hadn't been asking her to _call_ Emma. He was _gone_ for this girl.

"Fuck, Annie. It's a bad fucking plan."

 _Possibly._ "That's no excuse. Take the phone, hon." She popped back inside to check on Jared; when she returned Dylan was deep in conversation with the girl on the other end of the line.

" –cause she's a damn mess! Because she ruined Norman and that wasn't good enough for her and now she's got her claws in me and I… just... no!"

"…Yeah well, _you_ try living with her. It's hell. Every day's hell. It's hell."

"…Uh-huh, but you're wrong, Will wouldn't – "

"…I don't believe that. He's a good man, Emma, he's done so much for you, you don't even know – "

"…No, look, I'm drunk as shit. I don't want you to see this."

"… That sucks. I didn't… I never knew that. I'm sorry Emma. I'm sorry you saw that. You're better than all my bullshit, I'm so damn sorry." He was crying now, slumped forward in the chair, cradling the phone to his ear with a desperation that broke Liz's heart.

"…Yeah, okay. Okay. Bye." He hung up successfully on the third try and leaned back, closing his eyes. Holding his shit together – if that's what you could call the half-conversation Liz had just witnessed – had taken all Dylan's energy. She sat with him until a bright orange VW Beetle pulled up and a boy so young he probably still slept in footsie pajamas jumped out.

"Dylan man, what the hell?"

"It's my fault," Liz interrupted. "I thought he could handle his booze."

"No, it's okay. Usually he can. Every now and then shit just catches up to him, you know? I'm Gunner, by the way." He held out his hand. Smiled charmingly.

"Liz."

Together they manhandled Dylan into the passenger seat. Liz grabbed a spare bucket from around the back of the bar and set in Dylan's lap – just in case – and with only a slight crunch from the gearbox the boys were on their way. Liz bit her lip, unable to shake an odd foreboding about the quiet man and the sadness haunting him.

* * *

Emma paced at the back door of the Decodys' little home, praying Gunner didn't ruin her transmission. She had considered going after Dylan herself, but she'd only been home a week, and even _she_ could see it was a bad idea. Technically she wasn't supposed to drive yet, and a long trip to the next town over would be plain stupid. She'd settled for sneaking out, speeding to the farm, and haranguing a half-stoned Gunner into going instead. It was only after he'd dropped her back at her house that Emma wondered why she hadn't thought of calling Norman first.

…Maybe because letting Dylan go back to Norma's tonight seemed like a really bad plan. As did sending him up to the farm.

So she'd made up a bed on the sofa for him, and found a sleeping bag for Gunner just in case, and had peeked in to make sure her dad was still asleep.

The Beetle's familiar grumble announced Gunner's return; Dylan had gotten sick on the way home (into a bucket, thankfully) and claimed he was feeling better. Even so, he looked too miserable for the sofa. Emma directed Gunner to put him in her room instead. They tiptoed through the dark house, determined not to wake Will. Emma would rather have _that_ conversation in the morning, after a good night's sleep. She sent Gunner to the living room, crept to the bathroom for a spare toothbrush and the plastic trash can her father always used when someone had a stomach bug, and roused Dylan enough to get him cleaned up; it was on her way to the kitchen that she realized Gunner had commandeered the sofa and was already asleep, mouth half-open, arm dangling over the edge.

Emma smiled; a year ago, he was the sexiest thing that had ever happened to her. Now, Dylan Massett was in her bedroom. In her _bed_. Sure, he was piss-drunk and fully clothed (and she looked like one of Frankenstein's monster brides with all her scars and stitches) but those were just details. Dylan was _here._ Dylan cared about her and hadn't been ignoring her like she feared, Dylan had mistaken her silence for indifference and been hurt, and in the morning when he was sober she would clear it all up and her father would have to stop meddling, and everything would be okay again.

Emma stepped back into her room and allowed herself to stare.

It had all happened so fast, the kiss and the surgery and then her father's bullshit excuses to keep them apart. They had never really had moments like this before, when he was the body at rest and she the one in motion. It felt good. For perhaps the second time since coming home, Emma found herself overwhelmed by the series of events that had led to her transplant… and the important role Dylan had played in convincing her to take the match in Portland. She quite literally owed him her life. It was the kind of thing to make any girl swoon.

Eventually she pulled herself together and laid down beside him, debating only a second before letting her fingers wander freely through his hair. With his back to her (and the trash can placed strategically on the floor just below his head) it was easier to bear the sudden lurch of reality, the almost-panic induced by this unplanned, but not unwelcome, intimacy. She couldn't pretend she was fine with the physical restrictions imposed upon them by her medical condition. She _wasn't_ fine. Who would be? How long before he bored of waiting for her? It had been weeks since her surgery. Weeks of feather-soft kisses and cautious touches and those constant nagging questions hanging over them: _Is it too much? Am I hurting you? Do you need to stop?_ She'd been sure that was what had caused his sudden distance. It was driving _her_ crazy, and _she_ was the one recovering from the transplant.

Dylan mumbled something unintelligible and Emma called his name softly, running her hand over his shoulder and down his back, marveling at the warmth of him.

"I'm sorry," she heard him murmur.

"Don't be. I've been drunk before, it's terrible."

"I just want you to be happy."

"I _am_ happy," she tried, before realizing this was a decidedly one-sided conversation.

"I want to give you that. I want to be… to be the one that makes you happy."

She curled closer to Dylan and closed her eyes, the excitement of the night finally catching up to her. She could tell she'd be sore in the morning (and god only knew what her father would do) but for now she would enjoy this.

"Emma…" He breathed her name and in the silence of the room, she felt it curl over her, felt it twist down the length of her spine and fan out over her skin until she glowed with the heat of her name in his mouth. Dylan turned over clumsily, nuzzling into the cavity between her chin and shoulder. His breath tickled over her throat. Emma twisted until her lips whispered against his, grateful she'd had him brush his teeth.

"It's okay. We'll be okay," she promised him.

Even half-passed out, Dylan Massett kissed like nothing she'd experienced before. His beard was rough against her lower lip, his tongue soft against her upper one, and Emma melted into the safe cocoon of his chest and arms. She tried to remember herself but it was hard, when he felt so real and his skin called to her so persistently… her fingers slid under the hem of his shirt, caressed hipbones and stomach, traveled up his chest. There was a moment of indecision, a battle over whether or not to continue, but Dylan gripped her waist and his mouth sank over her breast and even through her t-shirt the feeling of falling into a warm dark bliss caused her to call his name… and he stopped.

He pulled away from her. "I hurt you."

"No, no no no…" Emma wanted to cry. "You didn't!"

"But if I had…" He sounded as miserable as she felt, for different reasons.

"But you _didn't._ "

He shook his head. "Look, this is enough, Emma. You're enough." And he pulled her back into a soft hug that felt distinctly _not_ enough.


End file.
